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Madeline hadn't changed by the next morning. She lay as motionless as when first brought into the house. If there were any change, it was that she was beginning to look like one who had been dead for some time: heavy shadows lay under her eyes, her cheeks and temples began to sink, and there was but feeble respiration. Irène had stayed up all night, and with the mother had watched and prayed. The good father confessor had been sent for, in the hope that, if Madeline were not to get well, she would at least not depart without the ministration of extreme unction. One hour of the night after the other had drawn along; but she did not awake. At daybreak the mother, again overcome by bereavement and fatigue, was put to bed.

"Monsieur," said Irène to the father, who sat with his forehead resting on